


The Days of Peace

by congratsyouvegrownasoul



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer
Genre: F/M, Gen, i have a lot of Andromache feels, just let me have a happy trojan family before the shitstorm, pairing/character lists will be updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/congratsyouvegrownasoul/pseuds/congratsyouvegrownasoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Priam's doomed house, before their doom. Before Paris took Helen from her Spartan home, before the Greeks came in their black ships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to try and cover the period between Hector and Andromache's marriage and the beginning of the war, which should be about a year and a half, focusing on the relationships between the members of the house of Priam. Andromache is going to be my main narrator, because she's my special favorite and I want a female voice. I might have some chapters from the perspectives of Helen, Hecuba, and Cassandra. Also possibly Creusa and Laodice. Prepare yourselves for lots of Trojan women.

_"And here, close to the springs, lie washing-pools where the wives of Troy and all their lovely daughters would wash their glistening robes in the old days, the days of peace before the sons of Achaea came."_

_-_ Book 22 of the Iliad, translated by Robert Fagles

* * *

She stands knee-deep in the shallows, the rippling water pulling at her skirts. The lake is much like the one beyond the walls of her city, but much larger, so huge that she cannot see the opposite edge. No matter how she strains her keen eyes—falcon's eyes, one of her brothers had always told her, half-jealously, as his own eyes were too weak to see the center of a target a hundred paces away—all she can see is grey mist, shrouding the corners of the world from her view. Although she has not yet visited the ocean, and only overheard merchant's stories, she supposes that this must be something like it. The wind from across the water is cold on her cheeks, but the waves themselves are soft and warm.

She sees the woman coming from far away, striding gracefully through the water. No one could naturally move that fast through waist-high lakewater, but the woman comes as rapidly as if she were gliding. She looks unnatural as well, beautiful as summer, with glossy hair black as jet, clear blue eyes and creamy skin. The wet cloth of her gown clings tight to her shapely body. The girl catches her breath, stumbling clumsily backward, away from this goddess, for surely she must be. The woman lays a smooth hand on her forearm, steadying her in a surprisingly strong grip.

"Don't run, child. I won't hurt you."

"Who are you?" the girl says, her voice barely a whisper.

"Don't you know?" says the goddess—Aphrodite—as if there was never a question, which there probably wasn't.

"Lady Aphrodite—"

She bows her head, suppliant.

Aphrodite places both of her palms on the girl's face, and lifts her head, gazing into her eyes. Something small and bold stirs inside the girl, cutting through fearful awe, and she does not look away.

The goddess draws them closer, kissing the girl on her forehead.

As her eyesight fades, she hears Aphrodite's voice murmuring into her ear.

"I have a gift for you. May it bring you strength."

In later years, she will know why the goddess had not wished her luck.

* * *

When Andromache struggles back into the waking world, the dream is still heavy in her mind. She opens her eyes, still awestruck, and now very confused. Sitting bolt upright in bed, she stares around the room, afterimages of smoky mist and smooth blue-green water searing against the shadowy corners. Outside, the summer sky is spread broad and black and twinkling with stars, the first streaks of fiery daylight appearing in the east. Across the room, there's a golden light cast against the wall, a distorted ring shape.

Although the room is warm and stuffy, Andromache feels a quick, sharp chill deep in her bones. She slides out of bed, padding across the room on quiet bare feet. The source of light rests on a cedar chest. It's a metal circlet, meant to hold her hair and veil in place. When she holds it in her hands, the heft of the thing tells her it is, in fact, gold. The band is embossed with a rippling pattern, like ocean waves must be, and three white pearls are set at each side. The cold, shivery feeling returns when she confirms that she's never seen the piece in her life.

_I have a gift for you._

She steals over to the servant girl slumbering in a cot at her bed's foot. Leaning over, Andromache takes the girl's shoulder and shakes her gently.

"Galene, wake up. Wake up!"

Galene struggles to a seated position, pushing herself up on her elbows. She rubs at her eyes, clouded with sleep.

"Go back to bed, Lady Andromache. It's too early. You shouldn't need to dress for hours. See, the sun's not yet risen."

"Galene, did anyone come in here last night? Did my mother mention having any jewelry sent? I woke up and found this laid out."

Andromache holds out the circlet, keeping details of her strange dream to herself. Galene's eyes widen, wondering.

"Oh, my lady, it's beautiful." Her hand reaches tentatively out, and she glances shyly up at Andromache through her lashes.

"Yes, you may touch it."

Galene caresses the wave pattern, brushing one of the pearls with her thumb.

"I didn't hear or see anyone come in. And, look, the door's still barred. How would this have got in here?" The younger girl begins to look afraid. "What if nymphs or spirits climbed the palace walls, my lady?"

_No nymphs, but a goddess._

"I'm sure it's merely a wedding gift, Galene. Nothing to worry about. I'll ask my mother whether I should wear it for the ceremony." The steadiness of Andromache's voice surprises her.

Galene nods, looking calmer. "You should try to sleep again, my lady. You'll need to be well-rested for tonight."

Andromache assumes Galene is referring to the wedding feast, which will go past midnight, as opposed to the eventual consummation of her marriage. The other girl is quite young, barely thirteen, and her expression at the moment is completely innocent. Besides, she's too timid and conscious of her place to make a comment like that anyway. However, Andromache is old enough, and nervous enough, to see another meaning in her words.

She tries to focus on the feast itself, which will surely be magnificent, with all the summer flowers decorating her father's hall, the boars, cows, ducks, and lambs she's seen roasting whole in a line of spits in the palace kitchens, and the music and dancing she loves so much. However, the thought of going to her new husband's bed for the first time is still frightening, even though she knows Hector is a good man who will treat her well.

Although the Trojan delegation has been at Thebes for nearly two weeks, she's never been alone with Hector, always accompanied by councilors or ladies in waiting, and he's never seen her unveiled. Hector is handsome enough, tall and wiry with even features and long dark hair. But she's wise enough to know physical beauty is no reflection of the soul. One of her father's council, though considered handsome, looks at her and the other court women like they're pieces of meat. His cold dead-fish eyes make her legs shake beneath her skirts and she feels sorry for his poor wife.

Hector, however, also has kind eyes and smiles easily, which speaks far better of him than how he looks. The last time she had seen him she was a girl of eleven, four years earlier, when they were officially betrothed. He was already a young man, though narrower across the shoulders than he is now. She was shy and apprehensive at first, but he had talked to her like one of her brothers. He had learned somehow that she was said to be a talented singer, and had managed to coax her into singing for him.

When she had met him for the second time weeks before, he had asked her if she still sang. It gratified her that he had remembered her as she used to be, but she, shyer now that she was older and understood more, had not yet sung for him.

Andromache looks very different at fifteen than she had at eleven. The last time Hector had seen her, she'd been a short, delicate little girl. The summer she had turned twelve she had shot up like a weed, and spent a long time tall and flat and feeling stretched. Over the last year and a half, however, she's begun to look like a woman, her hips and chest curving outwards, her body preparing to bear children. She's still rather slender, though, unlike Galene, whose figure is already more rounded than Andromache's will ever be. She is thankful for her height, because Hector is a tall man and her head barely reaches his shoulder as it is.

Anxious, and perhaps a little excited—she has been visited by the goddess of love and beauty, after all, which is surely a good sign—she cannot fall asleep, even when Galene's soft even breathing reaches her ears. She sits with her back against the bed frame, still and silent and watchful, as the dark sky bleeds into day.

* * *

 

Andromache is roused from her stupor by the sharp clatter of fists knocking against her door.

"Open up, little sister!"

She stands up, her back aching in protest, and hurries to the door, as Galene begins to rouse herself. Lifting the wooden bar closing her room off from the corridor, she swings the heavy door inward. Hilarion, the youngest of her seven older brothers, is standing outside, grinning enthusiastically.

"I thought you'd be awake. I thought I could get you to yourself before Mother and all the ladies came clucking in like hens to dress you."

In spite of her somber mood, she can't help but smile. Hilarion's name, which means "cheerful", was well chosen. Of all her teasing, loving, protective, sometimes smothering brothers, he is the closest to her heart. While her eldest brothers are already married, with babies of their own, Hilarion is only three years older than she. He is also the brother who has acted as her spy these last two weeks, carrying her stories of Hector, as he acts with the men and boys of her father's court, showing off their hunting and fighting skills.

It is not prowess with a sword or boar-spear that interests Andromache, however. Does Hector joke with the other men? Does he talk only of the hunt and of war, or do other topics occupy his interest? She holds Hilarion's information close to her heart, secretively, each detail helping her form a rough idea of who exactly she will wed today. Hector can hold his own among all seven princes of Thebes, she knows, a talent she herself somewhat envies. He doesn't talk for the sake of hearing his own voice, but he's not quiet either. He can quiet a spooked horse with calm hands and voice, and spoke well of Thebes's beauty, and of Troy's.

Troy's great citadel and mighty walls may be as lovely as Hector says, but her plains, between the ocean and Mount Ida, are not yet Andromache's home. She knows she will leave a part of her behind in the courtyards of King Eetion's palace, and in her city's rugged hill country. But the thought of travel spurs a secret excitement in her as well. She has never left Thebes, and part of her wants to see the surrounding lands, and finally glimpse the ocean. Troy is a greater and richer city than her ally, Andromache's homeland. Perhaps she could someday return to Thebes. But being parted from her parents and brothers will be more painful than anything else. Only Galene and a few other servant women will accompany her to Troy.

Thinking of good-byes, she runs to Hilarion and embraces him suddenly, pressing her face into his chest in sudden tears.

Hilarion, in unusual seriousness, pats her head gently, and only a little self-consciously.

"Andromache- it's not forever. I'll come visit you when Father can spare me, I promise. Hector's sisters will welcome you, and soon you'll have a baby to take care of. You won't be alone."

She wipes her eyes, angry at herself for crying.

"I know. But it's hard to leave."

"You're brave for a little henchick, sister. You'll be fine."

Her laugh is shaky but true.

"Fetch some breakfast for my sister, would you?"

Galene doesn't realize she's being addressed at first, then jumps to attention with a little squawk of fright. Andromache has noticed the shy glances she sends Hilarion when he visits them, and has guessed that Galene finds her brother handsome, and knows nothing could ever come of it. Hilarion is not the sort of prince to play around with servant girls.

After Galene hurriedly throws a wrapper over her tunic and scurries off for the kitchens, Andromache and her brother sit on the side of her bed.

"If it's any consolation to you, he's plenty nervous too."

"Hector? Really?"

"I got up early to see you, and saw him getting up to go to the stables."

"He went riding? What if he's late for the ceremony?"

Andromache's mind rapidly constructs a nightmare scenario where she stands alone before the altar in Thebes's great temple, dressed and ready and abandoned.

"No, you silly little girl. He just went in there to be with his horses. I imagine it calms him."

"Don't call me silly!" Andromache smacks his arm gently. Hilarion smirks.

"I can't really call you a little girl anymore, I suppose. You'll be a married lady by noon."

She takes a deep breath, allowing the air to settle into her lungs and rest awhile before she releases it. Leaning her head onto her brother's shoulder, Andromache nods in agreement, her face thoughtful.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_“She flung to the winds her glittering headdress, the cap and the coronet, braided band and veil, all the regalia golden Aphrodite gave her once, the day that Hector, helmet aflash in sunlight, led her home to Troy from her father’s house.”_ -Book 22 of the Iliad, translated by Robert Fagles.

* * *

Before long, Galene returns from the kitchens, laden with oatcakes, goat’s-milk cheese, and sliced apples. She hovers nervously by the door, watching for the coming of the queen and her ladies. Andromache eats with as much haste as she can without spilling anything, sitting cross-legged on the bed. Her brother picks stealthily at the cheese when he thinks she’s not looking.

When the sounds of rustling skirts and quiet chatter come whispering up the women’s quarters’ corridors, Hilarion, with more than a little of a startled rooster’s fluttering, retreats quickly. He pauses briefly on the way out to kiss his sister. Unseen outside the door, she hears the murmur of voices as he greets their mother.  

Queen Sostrate sweeps into the room, tall and graceful, followed by a small gaggle of attendants. Andromache leaps up, bowing her head respectfully. The queen crosses the floor swiftly to embrace her daughter. Enfolded in her mother’s arms, the tension in Andromache’s shoulders starts to release.

Around them, the other women busy themselves unpacking trunks. One of them, accompanied by Galene, hurries into an adjoining chamber to begin drawing a bath. As they prepare to dress Andromache as a bride, the queen reassures her daughter in hushed tones.

“It’s not wrong to be frightened before a marriage, child. Never suppose you’re the only one.”

Andromache starts.

“How did you know I was scared?”

Her mother laughs softly.

“Because I know you, my daughter, and I know young brides. I remember, when you were just a little thing, you asked me once if the setting sun would light the hills on fire. You’ve always been an anxious one. And I remember how nervous I was the day I married your father.”

She pauses, her voice gently teasing.

“Besides, your brother told me.”

Andromache smiles ruefully. She should have guessed Hilarion wouldn’t have kept silent.

“You’re lucky to have a summer wedding. Mine was in midwinter, and unusually cold. I thought I’d freeze in the litter between my father’s gates and the great temple, though I was wrapped in blankets. I would have been shivering with worry even if I wasn’t already with the cold, though.”

Andromache has heard stories of her parents’ wedding before, but never this part. It is difficult to imagine her dignified mother, now with delicate wrinkles clustered in the corners of her eyes and grey hairs woven in with her dark braids, as a bashful bride no older than herself. Difficult, but not impossible.

“Look at me, child.”

Her mother’s eyes are warm. Surprisingly, they are also damp, though she smiles.

“It’s no evil to fear change. However, you must remember that showing fear is not always wise. No sane man is unafraid when he rides to battle, but very few will admit it. We women can play the same tricks as warriors. Hold your head high and smile if you can, and you’ll be all right.”

Andromache will be Hector’s queen as well as his wife, and queens, like her mother, do not cry easily. She swallows hard.

“I will. I promise.”

But she is far from a queen yet, and so she clings tightly to her mother and speaks softly, letting herself be a girl for just a bit longer.

“I’ll miss you, Mama.” The name she called her mother as a little child slips out, past the thickness of unshed tears in her throat.

“We’ll miss you too, my daughter. All of us. But—”

“We need to say our farewells bravely. I know.”

They hold each other for a long moment more, as if gathering the feeling of the other into their memories. Then, slowly, they let go.

 

* * *

Andromache knows no future bards will sing of her beauty, and she is too practical to mourn this for long. Neither her face nor her form is exceptional, although she is by no means ugly, or even plain. Beauty is just not a thing one would associate with her.

Today, she is almost disturbed when shown her reflection in her mirror’s polished bronze surface, for she is so splendid she barely recognizes herself.

The features of her face are mostly unchanged, although her wide-set, alert dark eyes are edged in black paint. But the brilliance of her clothes and jewels lends a different light to her. She looks older, and almost magnificent.

Her one vanity would have to be her hair, which is indeed beautiful, thick and a rich deep brown. Although it will be covered by her veil, as usual, the women have dressed it in a far more elaborate version of her usual plaited knot. Twisted into position at the nape of her neck, it is still glossy and blackened from the bathwater.

The pins holding her braids in place are set with garnets, as are her heavy earrings. If, as they say in far-off Greece, milky rock crystal is water frozen so hard it cannot melt, then surely these deep-red gems were once droplets of blood. The pieces are new, gifts from the Trojan treasuries. The golden bands encircling her bare upper arms, however, are of Theban work, once her mother’s. Molded dragon’s heads snarl at their ends, biting gently into her skin.

It is her dress, however, that is truly glorious. With her mother and her brothers’ wives, she has labored over it for weeks now. Cut of fine light wool, purplish-red in color, the flounces of its skirt embroidered richly with vine leaves and summer flowers, it is the finest dress she has ever owned. Tiny discs of gold are sewn into the edges of the fabric, shimmering when the candlelight catches at them.

The finery leaves her feeling both liberated and self-conscious. All at once she is weighed down and brilliant, shining. It’s an experience that makes her somewhat light-headed.

The queen herself veils her daughter, letting the light sheet of pale purple linen float onto Andromache’s braids. Tucking the ends of the cloth into place, she slides the goddess’s gift over it. The cold gold of the circlet presses against Andromache’s forehead, smoothing lines of anxiety from her brow.

Queen Sostrate bends down, her lips brushing Andromache’s cheek.

“Blessings go with you, my daughter.”

Her voice is whisper-soft, meant only for one girl’s ears.

 

* * *

A summer wedding might be preferable to a winter one, but the sun beats down on the city, and only a few breezes swirl in the thick air, even on Thebes’s highest hill. Sweat runs in little rivulets beneath her bodice, pooling at the small of her back and in the cleft between her breasts,   and those heavy tiered skirts stick to her legs. All the city’s nobles, as well as the Trojan delegation, have packed themselves into the temple of Zeus, which does not improve the temperature.

Before the god-statue, the high priest raises his hands to the heavens and cries out for Father Zeus’s blessing. He is a big man, round-bellied, and sports a thick graying beard. He must be much hotter than she, but that does stunt the enthusiasm of his preaching.

Andromache is far too nervous to listen to his words as well as she should. She finds herself staring around the temple, looking everywhere except the man who will be her husband. From Hector she averts her eyes.

The Trojan nobles are ranked in the place of honor at the temple’s front, filling one side of the space, the side nearer to where Hector stands. Her father, mother, and brothers stand at the other side. Most of the Trojans are older men, but one is no older than Hilarion, with curly black hair and the merest scraps of a beard. His head is tilted upwards, towards the roof. She follows his gaze to the elaborate carvings in the temple’s wooden beams. Above them, goats trot across the ceiling, and eagles perch haughtily in the corners of the room.

Behind the richly dressed aristocracy, common people mass in the temple square, some clustering in the great doorway. A gaggle of young boys have climbed into the windows, and squat up there, looking down on the proceedings with wide eyes. Andromache envies them their places, where what little wind there is can cool them.

The room is full of whispers. Whenever so many people gather, silence is impossible. Someone’s foot beats a fretful rhythm against the flagstones. Glancing around, she notices that it is Hector. She finally raises her eyes to him. He is as still as the god-statue itself other than that thumping foot. Beneath his gleaming bronze helm, his brow is furrowed and his lips set in a grim line. His fists are clenched at his sides.

Andromache realizes that he _is_ nervous, as her brother claimed. Somehow, this knowledge calms her roiling stomach slightly. Soon, however, a new worry rears up to frighten her. What if she doesn’t please him? What if he thinks her plain or dull or too shy, and that is why he looks so harsh?

She steps to the side, slightly closer to him, and, slightly breathless at her own daring, knocks her hand against his. Hector flinches, surprised, then looks over at her, raising his eyebrows.

Andromache gives him a quick, bashful smile. She can feel her cheeks flaming. Thanks the gods, he smiles back.

In front of them, the priest lowers his arms, a broad smile spreading across his plump face, and calls for the congregation to process outside. The words have been said, and the massive stone altar waits beyond the doors. Once that ritual is complete they will be man and wife.

Hector takes her hand in his, and they follow the high priest. His grip is firm, if slippery with sweat. His hands are large, long-fingered, and rough with a soldier’s calluses.

Andromache’s weighty wine-colored skirts scrape against the stone floor. The gold discs sewn into her hemline chime and glitter.

King Eetion and Queen Sostrate follow them. Until she is Hector’s queen, her wedding day will be the only time Andromache is first behind the priest.

Temple servants shunt the throng aside, to make room for the nobles crowding outside. At the edge of her vision, she sees one of the little boys in the window scrabbling down from his perch and darting into the mob.

The sun blazes directly overhead, like the eye of some great blue beast. The very color of the cloudless sky is blinding. It is noon, and heat shimmers in the heavy air.

Andromache walks almost as if asleep. The dream she dreamed the night before was more real to her than this. Her head is spinning; whether from heat or hunger or fear she does not know. She holds tight to Hector’s hand and puts one sandaled foot in front of the other.

The altar is a broad swath of white stone, carved from some Theban hillside. Lesser priests lead a black bull through the square, draped with garlands of flowers. The crowd reaches out its many hands, touching at the animal’s smooth sides. Perhaps touching the marriage sacrifice will bring them luck as well.

Andromache and Hector take their places on other side of the priest. An acolyte passes alongside them, pressing a tool on each of them. Andromache holds an earthenware flagon, heavy with water. Hector’s hands clasp a bronze knife, the blade curved and cruel.

The black bull halts before the altar, well-trained and docile. All the ritual’s participants know their roles just as well. As Andromache steps forward, the priest calls out.

“O Immortals, bless this beast, make him pure and obedient to your will.”

Andromache upends the jug, and water sloshes out onto the bull’s head, running down between his ears and along his heavy jowls. The animal tilts his head downward with the force of the water, nodding his consent to the sacrifice.

“O Immortals, let his death be swift and smooth.”

Another acolyte strikes him on the head with a wooden mallet, quick as a viper. The beast falls to his knees, stunned. Hector moves into position, bends to one knee, and cuts his throat with the knife. Red blood sprays out, splattering the white cloth of her husband’s tunic. It spills over his strong hands and pools on the altar’s pale stone.

“O Immortals, let his life’s blood feed this union, bringing to it luck and fertility.”

The bull slumps forward in death. Hector stands back, blood dripping from his fingers. Andromache slants the head of her flagon, and the last of the water runs down over him. He wrings his hands beneath the stream, letting the stains wash away. On the altar, spilled water mingles with spilled blood. Sunlight glances off the dark pink surface of the resulting puddle.

 

 The high priest slides another knife from his belt of gilded leather. He bends down to slash the dead bull’s belly open, pulling a tangle of viscera from the slit. Andromache is no stranger to seeing meat butchered, but the sight of the bull’s organs certainly brings her no pleasure. However, when the priest and his jumble of acolytes pronounce that they have seen the signs, and know them to be good, she smiles. Andromache may be joined in marriage to a man all but a stranger, but the gods have sent them lucky omens. And so she smiles.


End file.
